


Never

by applepi314



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, M/M, Poetry, but i mention a lot of fandoms so it hits close to home, it's like.., its not really fanfic, ive never really written anything like this, still not sure how much i like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepi314/pseuds/applepi314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never told his boyfriend he loves him.<br/>And now it could be too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is just angst  
> tw: mentions of abuse, self-harm (nothing graphic), slight homophobia (a slur or two but not much) suicidal thoughts, major character deaths
> 
> im sorry
> 
> it's kind of a reflection of my feelings after this conversation me and my friends had the other night oops.
> 
> it's not really fanfic  
> but there's cereal stealing  
> and like. the protagonist is kinda nico  
> and a few carry on quotes

He's never said it.  
He can't.  
He's had a boyfriend for three years now, and he's never said "I love you."

Maybe he's afraid.  
He doesn't know what of.  
There's nothing left for him to be ashamed of.  
Actually, that's a lie.  
At this point, it's piles of lies, heaps of them stacking up and threatening to fall over one day.  
Any day.  
Any perfectly normal day, that tower of lies could fall.  
And he would be revealed.

He has plenty to be ashamed of.  
Those scars.  
They're in odd places.  
Never on his wrists like some people.  
Some on his shoulders.  
Some on his legs.  
He's even made some on his back.  
He doesn't eat.  
He never eats.  
His boyfriend tries to get him to eat, gently; never forcing.  
But sometimes he does force, and he flinches.  
Flinches away from the caring words, though thrown out harshly.  
He's only trying to help, and he can't hold him for that.  
But he still flinches.  
He still has faults.  
His flaws.  
They stick out.  
They stick out like white clothing at a funeral

He isn't sure why, but he hopes it isn't his.  
He's afraid of death.  
Even after he's come so close to it, so close Death is almost in his reach, he springs back.  
He's afraid of the darkness, and melting away into it forever, lost among swirling souls all crying out for help.

He's never said it.  
It's been five years and he still hasn't said three long overdue words to him.  
To him.  
With the silky hair and the eyes that shift color, depending on his mood.  
The caring eyes and gentle touches.  
Who even after he had seen him after a particularly ugly...session never gave up hope.  
Never stopped trying.  
Always encouraged.

He's still afraid.  
His boyfriend still hasn't seen.  
Seen everything.  
Seen him.  
It's been years since he's been clean more than a week.  
It's been years since he's had three full meals in a day.  
It's been years since he's gone a day without being hit.  
Sometimes with hands or objects,  
Sometimes hit with words.  
Loud, angry words, slamming into him, hitting him right in his chest, slightly on his left.  
Where he feels a strange beating.  
Thumping.  
It's like a caged angel, pleading to be let loose, be set free.  
He wants to free the angel.  
The beating will stop.  
The thumping will silence.  
But he hasn't yet.  
Why not?

He supposed he's still afraid of death.  
He's afraid of Death and the scary darkness that comes with it.  
It will snatch him up in the cold and carry him beyond.  
But he doesn't know what's beyond.  
So he doesn't free the angel.  
The angel continues to fight, pleading for freedom, but he doesn't give in yet.

He said it.  
He finally told his boyfriend.  
They've been together seven long years and he's never said it.  
But he did.  
And his boyfriend kissed him.  
Not wildly, not frantically, but gently.  
And that's exactly what he needed.

His tower fell.  
That tower, that tower of lies.  
Finally, with one careless–or not so careless–action, the tower crumbled.  
He was revealed.  
And it was okay.  
He's still ashamed of himself.  
Of his scars.  
But everything was okay.  
He eats now, still only small bites, but it's enough.  
He moved out.  
He moved away from his drunken, high, abusive father.

He hasn't cut in six months.  
He's eaten at least three partial meals every day for three months.  
And he hasn't been hit in over two years.  
His boyfriend throws them a little party.  
Only a small celebration.  
It's not that big of an achievement, but they're both elated.  
He's so proud of himself.  
He finally feels different.  
A strange fluttery feeling is in his stomach.  
Is this maybe...  
Happiness?  
Yes, he thinks it probably is.  
He'll have to get used to the feeling.  
/Joy./  
It's unfamiliar, the word and its meaning.  
But this is what he is now.  
He's not a fag.  
Or a bastard.  
He's...happy.  
He loves his boyfriend and he's happy.  
The words are foreign on his mouth but he tells him.  
His boyfriend's face lights up and he grabs him and pulls him in for a kiss.  
He's happy.  
He's in love.  
This is bliss and this is what love feels like.

Three years later, and he's completely clean.  
It's been years since he cut.  
It's been years since he hasn't eaten three full meals in a day.  
It's been years since he's been hit.  
He's happy and he's in love.

But your first love never lasts.  
It lasted ten years.  
His first love lasted a whole decade, and almost half his life.  
His boyfriend was walking home with him.  
Their fingers were intertwined as they swung them while they walked.  
But there were other people like him.  
Other people with their flaws.  
Other people wanting to free their angels.  
A car swerved off the road in front of where they were walking. 

He didnt see the car until it was too late.  
His boyfriend shoved him onto the sidewalk, trying to avoid the car.  
But it was too late.  
He was gone.  
His boyfriend, with silky hair and caring touches was gone.

Never.  
Never again.  
Never again would he wake up next to the other boy, with tousled curls and morning breath.  
Never again would they cuddle up and watch movies in the living room, sometimes both of them sobbing while holding tightly to one another.  
Never again would he catch him up late at night sneaking his cereal.  
Never again would they get into stupid arguments (they both secretly loved) about who drank the last of the milk then proceed to angrily make out.  
Never again would he stare at him while he slept and then he'd wake up, staring bleary-eyed at him, then grin and kiss him on the tip of his nose.  
Never again.  
Never.

He's not afraid anymore.  
He isn't afraid.  
He's not afraid of the dark.  
Or the cold fingers that will cling onto him, lingering.  
He becomes reckless, constantly getting far too close to death.  
He wants it.  
With all his heart, soul, and mind he wants death.  
He wants to fling himself into the oblivion because who the fuck cares?  
Not his boyfriend.  
How /can/ he care?  
He's not even there.

Every day, he wakes up and hears the angel.  
He hasn't given in yet.  
Why not?  
He has no boyfriend anymore.  
He has no family.  
No one would notice.  
A quick, simple action and he'd be gone.  
Gone.  
So why hasn't he done it yet?  
He can't still be afraid.  
He /isn't/ afraid.  
What's stopping him?

It was the girl.  
She was young, maybe five or six.  
He saw her when he went to the store because he was craving cookie dough.  
He doesn't know why.  
It reminds him of.../him./  
Baking cookies, but eating the dough.  
The kitchen, covered with ingredients.  
Happy kisses, grinning, smudging the flour that's almost a sheet over his face.  
The little girl saw him.  
She asked her mommy loudly, "Why is that boy wearing all black?"  
"Sometimes people wear all black when they're very very sad," her mom said patiently.  
"Sometimes their family members die."  
"Oh," she replied.  
The little girl ran over to him, her ponytail swinging.  
"Are you sad?" she asked, with big owl eyes.  
"I'm very sad," he said quietly, managing a small smile.  
When was the last time he smiled?  
He didn't know.  
"Someone I love very much died," he said carefully.  
"It's okay. My doggy died and we buried him in our yard. I cried a lot but Mommy says he's in a better place now. But I miss him. Do you miss your friend?"  
"I do. I miss him a lot."  
Her mother comes over and apologized, but he shrugs.  
He doesn't mind much.  
The little girl frowned and whispered something to her mom.  
She smiled and nodded, so the girl grabbed something out of the cart.  
"Here! This will make you happy!"  
It's a single flower, a yellow tulip.  
He smiled and took it, holding it gingerly.  
"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.  
The mom handed him some money to pay for it and told him he better be looking out for himself; he looked far too skinny.

The tulip only lasts a week.  
He tries everything.  
He looks up every way to keep the flower fresh.  
But it doesn't last.  
Nothing lasts.  
Only memories.  
He spends hours at the cemetery, recounting the little girl over and over to his love.

He tells him he's been clean since he saw her.  
He's eaten since he saw her.  
He falls asleep by the grave and it must be a few hours later, someone pokes him.  
Somehow, by some miracle, it's the girl.  
He quickly rolls down his sleeves.  
"Is that your friend?" she asks him.  
"Yes. This was my boyfriend."  
His heart aches.  
Not even one minute goes by where he doesn't occupy his every thought.  
Her mom finds her and gasps.  
She explains her daughter wanted to see where her grandmother was buried.  
He shows her his boyfriend.  
The woman sees the photo of the tulip he's laid and a smile comes.  
Maybe, maybe he's getting a little teary-eyed.  
She drills him on his eating habits.  
He doesn't lie.

He's fallen back into old patterns.  
It's been a few days, but he still cuts.  
It still doesn't help.  
It never helps.  
It only distracts him.  
He eats–sometimes.  
He's still going on life insurance but soon he'll run out.  
He doesn't know what he'll do.  
His record is bad.  
He's only ever had a few jobs, most of them illegal.

The girl is playing among the tombstones.  
It's an odd sight, but the melancholy aura lifts.  
Her laughter rings out like bells tinkling a sweet melody.  
He talks with her mother for a long time, and eventually, she presses a twenty dollar bill into his hand and tells him firmly to make sure he eats; he's still young and has so much life to live.

But she's wrong.  
He doesn't have much life to live.  
He's still fixing his note.  
He wants to record everything, from his boyfriend to the girl to his apologies.  
There are a lot.  
I'm sorry for cutting.  
I'm sorry for blaming my mom for my dad.  
I'm sorry for everything.  
But most of all, I'm sorry I didn't say I loved him sooner.  
He's almost done.  
When he is, he wants to be free. He wants to rescue the angel thumping in his heart, that's begging for freedom.

Never.  
He'll never see the grass again.  
He'll never see anyone alive ever again.  
He'll never feel warm sunshine on his face again.  
He'll never have soft white snow crunch beneath his boots.  
But he'll never be abused again.  
He'll never be called names again..  
He'll never be whispered at behind his back again.  
He'll never feel so utterly alone again.  
He figures the good outweigh the bad and he's ready.  
He sets the note on the table.  
He doesn't want to rot for days, so he calls someone and lets the phone ring ad ring.  
They pick up and say hello.  
Then more frantically when they get no answer.  
"Are you okay?! Oh God, please if you're thinking of doing anything stupid, please, stop. Please! We love you okay? Don't do anything stupid."  
Nothing.  
Nothing.  
Never again.  
Nothing.


End file.
